


Shower

by aintgonnaleaveyoumikey



Series: Showers [1]
Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Drug Addiction, Ending C: The Third Way, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Showers, almost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25900309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aintgonnaleaveyoumikey/pseuds/aintgonnaleaveyoumikey
Summary: "What the fuck have you taken, T?" He asked quietly, took a few steps closer and crouched down to look at Trevor's face.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Series: Showers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074707
Comments: 28
Kudos: 99





	Shower

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [this picture of Steven Ogg.](https://www.instagram.com/p/BAhu1cIlBl5/)

It wasn't like Trevor to admit fault in himself. So when he did, Michael couldn't deny being worried.

"It's just all shit, Michael. Everything is shit. _I_ am shit. _You_ are shit... My life is just—" 

Even in his current self-pitying state, Trevor could not refrain from insulting Michael. Michael sighed and rubbed his face.

"Jesus, T," he interrupted the rambling, "Just get up and we'll... I don't fucking know. What's… What do you need?" He asked, exasperated because his quiet day had been interrupted for _this_. Trevor lying down, staring at the sky and, what, feeling sorry for himself?

Well, it wasn't like Michael didn't do that. He just did it on a sun lounger, not on a pile of trash bags. But that's probably the only thing you can find when you live in the back room of a strip club.

But feeling sorry for himself wasn't like Trevor either unless the whole ‘ _I'm living an authentic life while you waste away in a city full of plastic fuckfaces_ ’ notion was just an act, and Michael didn't think it was. 

Trevor laughed shortly. It sounded more like he was choking. "What do I need? _Need_? I don't fucking know what I _need_ , Mikey, I don't, I—" Trevor trailed off, still not looking at Michael, an empty look in his eyes.  
"Well, you called me." Michael pointed out sharply, "So what's this about?"

That made Trevor turn his head, the fire coming back to his eyes. "SHUT. UP. Shut up, Michael. Shut up. Don't. Don't start." He was infuriated and still high, there was no doubt about it, but there was also something else in his voice, in his eyes. 

"Don't start what?" Michael asked, puzzled — Trevor usually didn’t miss the chance of getting things off his chest.  
"I said _don't_ , you fucking…!" Trevor hissed and attempted to get up, probably, but he just ended up fumbling on the trash bags and falling on his side. He stayed on the ground, huffing angrily at Michael.

Michael stared at him, racking his brain for every time he ever saw Trevor on drugs. The melancholic daze he was in was unusual, and so was the way he talked. It was like a bad imitation of his normally biting manner of speech. 

Meth didn't do _that_ to him. 

"What the fuck have you taken, T?" He asked quietly, took a few steps closer and crouched down to look at Trevor's face. His pupils were blown wide and his gaze was unfocused. Michael reached out his hand, almost brushing his fingers on Trevor's cheek just to see if the contact would pull him back into their world. But then Trevor smirked slightly, his gaze firmly set on Michael's eyes, and Michael pulled his hand away. 

"Uppers, downers, candy corn, who the fuck knows…" Trevor slurred. At least he wasn't angry anymore: the smirk grew wider.

Michael considered leaving him there, but… _Trevor had called him_. He hadn't exactly asked for help, but he might as well had, and that wasn't like him. Leaving him here didn't feel like an option. Not when he so clearly needed his help.

" _Okay_ ," Michael grimaced, deciding what to do. "Okay. Get up, you fucker. I'm taking you in." And if any of the girls resigned because they finally realized their boss was a dangerous lunatic, it would serve Trevor right.

Trevor just grunted an answer and put his hands forward, surprisingly compliant. Michael took them and pulled him to a sitting position first, then up, Trevor only barely helping. He slung his hand to Michael's shoulder and Michael dragged him towards the backdoor of the club, trying not to breathe because Trevor smelled like he had been lying in the garbage for weeks. 

_Jesus, this is a mess_.

They got into the building. Michael had thought of dumping Trevor on the couch, and he already let go of Trevor until he realized that the smell was unbearable indoors. He gave Trevor's waist a rough, tight grab before he fell on the couch, and Trevor made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, his hands shooting to Michael's arms as he was jerked upright again. 

"You trying to get my stink on you, Mikey?" He asked, eyes slowly focusing on Michael's face.  
"Oh, believe me, T, that's the last fucking thing I want," Michael said with a disgusted scowl.  
"What's _this_ , then?" Trevor smiled and made a small, awkward grinding motion with his hips, pointing out how close they were. Trevor pressed against him just for a moment, but Michael felt himself blushing. He tried to glare at Trevor before stepping back, still taking better hold of his waist as he turned Trevor towards the dressing room. 

" _Knock that off_ , you fucker. I'm just taking you to the showers before you have zero employees left. You fucking stink," he grunted and hauled him forward.

“Why do you care so much about my business?” Trevor murmured but didn't protest. He was gaining some of his strength back.  
"Because I actually like the girls here," Michael huffed, turning his head away from Trevor.  
"You are a model husband, Sugartits," Trevor sneered weakly.

Michael might have pressed his fingers into Trevor's side with a bit more force at the jab, but Trevor either didn't notice or just didn't complain. 

After Michael made sure the dressing room was empty, he walked them in and sat Trevor down on a bench, huffing out a breath after dragging the heavy man around. They weren't getting any younger, or at least Michael wasn't. Somehow Trevor only seemed to get more buff. Stronger. 

Yeah, he was jealous. 

“So…” Trevor trailed off.  
“What?” Michael asked warily.  
“You gonna join me in the shower, Sugar?” Trevor asked and reached out to grab Michael's hand, trying to stand up, but he swayed, and Michael had to step closer and guide him back to a sitting position. Trevor put his hands down against the bench, looking up at him with a hungry look in his eyes.

The look was very familiar to Michael by now because Trevor kept giving him those looks every now and again; It pissed Michael off because they were supposed to be friends, no matter how fucked up their friendship was after years of him pretending to be dead and everything else that happened after Trevor finding out the truth.

But God did it also feel good to be looked at like that. Fucked up, but so good. No one ever looked at him like Trevor did, and the way it made him swallow nervously was fucking pathetic. Or maybe it was the question, a suggestion much more obvious than their usual quips of _fuck you — don't you wish_.

Michael carefully pushed all those thoughts away before he answered. “Shut the fuck up, T. Take off your clothes."  
Trevor blinked at him. "Getting some mixed signals here, Porkchop."  
"Yeah? Your head's just fucked up," Michael answered and Trevor grunted. He fumbled at his t-shirt and Michael gave a frustrated sigh. 

"Not just your head, huh? Hands up,” he said firmly, and Trevor obeyed after processing for a while. Michael pulled off Trevor's shirt, touching it — and Trevor — as little as he possibly could.

Michael was _definitely not_ eyeing up his chest as he moved his hands to open the belt.

“I love it when you tell me what to do, Mikey,” Trevor slurred a bit, and lifted his hips much more than was necessary for Michael to take off his pants. “You used to do it a lot. You used to order me around like I was your dog.” 

Michael pursed his lips, not wanting to think about how they were like when they were young.

“Fuck, which drugs are you on? Sit down and stop that,” Michael hissed, ignoring Trevor’s words. He thought about throwing Trevor in the shower with his jeans on, not that it would matter that much. Trevor's clothes stunk just as badly as the man himself; Michael would need to find him something else to wear anyway.

He still opened Trevor's belt. 

“Stop what,” Trevor asked, almost maintaining his position, but his hands were shaking quite a bit. Michael's hands were working on the button, then on the zipper, and Trevor seemed to be holding back a grin. 

"You know what," Michael said, tone dangerous, as he pushed Trevor's jeans down his thighs. “I don’t have to help you. You want my help, you gotta behave.”  
"Buzzkill," Trevor uttered as he sat back down. 

"Just kick off your shoes," Michael growled and took a few steps back. Trevor obeyed and got them off, although with difficulty. His hands went to push off his jeans, but his attempts were just sad. 

Michael sighed and pulled them off, along with his socks, Trevor stretching his legs. Michael had seen a lot of nasty things in his life, but Trevor's clothes were _disgusting_. His hands felt grimy and he dropped the clothes to the floor. Where the fuck had he been? 

"Fucking… Stay there," he ordered with a grimace and went to the tiny shower cubicle at the back of the dressing room. He turned the shower on, quickly stepping back so that his clothes didn't get wet. Then he walked to the sink right next to the cubicle and started washing his hands. 

In the mirror, he saw Trevor looking back at him with a cocky smirk. He stood up, legs just holding, despite Michael’s order to stay put. Michael just raised his eyebrows and watched as Trevor slowly ran his hands from his chest to the waistband of his underwear. 

Trevor pushed the underwear down to his knees and then kicked them off. Michael had seen Trevor naked before — the man had never been exactly demure — but usually, Trevor’s nudity didn’t come with intense eye contact. Michael had to avert his gaze.

“Right. You can get your own ass in the shower, then?” He tried to keep his voice neutral and eyes focused on his hands, but he couldn’t keep his eyes away when Trevor started shakily walking towards the cubicle.  
“You betcha, Cowboy,” he murmured, dragging his feet, but making it underneath the shower anyway. 

Michael watched from the corner of his eye as Trevor leaned his hand against the wall and tilted his head up, rubbing his mouth a few times before dropping his hands and just standing underneath the water. Michael looked at his profile before his eyes wandered to his arm, to the tattoo that felt like an accusation.

“Mikey,” Trevor suddenly said, voice small, and turned his head. Michael quickly looked away.  
“Yeah?” He answered quietly, drying his hands on a paper towel. 

Trevor slumped down on his knees. 

"Shit!" Michael rushed towards him, but Trevor just sat down on his ass in the middle of the shower, the water hitting the back of his head, his legs sticking out of the cubicle.  
“Just sitting down, Sugartits, don’t panic,” he growled with a sigh.  
“Maybe tell me that _before_ you fucking collapse, you dick,” Michael snapped. He backed off and leaned against the wall opposite of the cubicle, watching Trevor's face carefully. 

“Well…” Trevor started but didn’t finish his sentence. His gaze became unfocused again.

“T. Hey." Michael snapped his fingers. "You okay, buddy?”  
“Yeah. Yeah, yeah…. Of course. Never better, Mikey.” 

Michael furrowed his brow. He didn’t want Trevor to go back to being like this, not when he had already seemed to sober up a bit. 

"The water warm enough for you?" He asked the first thing that came to his mind.  
Trevor just hummed an answer. 

He needed to get his attention. 

"Hey, T. What happened to your head?" He asked, pointedly looking at the gashes on Trevor’s forehead. He hoped to pull Trevor out of the haze, but the blank stare he got in response was alarming. Michael raised his voice: “Trev! Snap out of it.”

“The clowns…” Trevor seemed to shudder even under the warm water.  
“ _What_?” Michael asked incredulously.

“A lot of them. A lot of clowns, Mikey, and I _fucking hate_ — And then a wall happened." His voice suddenly got matter-of-fact.

"... Trevor,” he sighed, trying not to sound scolding, but he was disappointed. Sad, even. Trevor obviously neglected his health — but who was Michael to complain about unhealthy habits — and Michael knew he hurt himself sometimes, he had even witnessed Trevor sinking into that destructive fury before, but hearing him admit it…

"Happened quite a few times, actually, Mikey. Wall, head, wall, head, wall, head,” Trevor chanted rhythmically, “Again and again. Gets my head right back on track."

“You don’t seem to be on any kind of track right now,” Michael pointed out. Trevor flipped him off.

Michael knew it was futile to tell Trevor he shouldn't do it, but he couldn’t stop himself from commenting, anyway. "I hate it when you do that."  
“Do what?”  
“... Get high and hurt yourself,” Michael answered, honest for once.  
Trevor scoffed at him. "You think that'll make me stop? That I'll change everything about myself just to please you?" 

"Not really, no," he answered with a thoughtful look. "But _why_? Abusing other people isn't enough for you?"  
"Get off your high horse, you fucking hypocrite," Trevor snarled. 

"I'm not a hypocrite," Michael grunted, shifting self-consciously. His alleged hypocrisy wasn't the point here, and he certainly wasn't as bad as Trevor. "Just answer me why, Trev."

Their eyes met: Trevor's looked more tired and old than he'd ever seen them before. They were both too old for this. 

"I don't know. Maybe I don't have the means to express the anger inside me any other way."

Michael raised his eyebrows, snorting a bit. "That's bullshit. You got a lot of ways to express your anger."  
"Well what do you wanna fucking hear, Mikey?! That I do it because I fucking hate myself?!" He snapped. 

"Do you?" Michael asked calmly. “Because all you talk about is how great you are compared to everyone else.”  
"Of course I fucking hate myself! I got nothing, Michael! Absolutely fucking nothing!" 

"Nothing, T? You got this place and more money you could ever spend," Michael pointed out.  
Trevor made a low growl in the back of his throat. "Oh, that's so like you, Michael. _Money, property_. I got nothing that _matters_."

Trevor looked pained and his stare was so intense that Michael had to fight to maintain eye contact. 

“And what would that be?” Michael asked, keeping his tone soft.  
“Anyone who gives a shit about me. I just want someone to _care_ about _me_ , Michael. Is that too much to ask in this cruel fucking world?” Trevor choked out, his face scrunching up. He looked like he would cry any minute.

"I’ve told you before, Trev. I... care about you. And I wanna help you out. You got me.” And he genuinely meant it, too, even though his every instinct was telling him to run away.

“Ah, you say that, but you don’t really mean it, Mikey. I don't _got you_ , not the way I’d..." 

"What?" Michael asked when Trevor didn’t finish his sentence. He was afraid to hear the answer, but he still needed to ask. 

"You _know_."

Trevor got back on his feet, using the wall as support. He started to wash himself slowly with a body wash that smelled strongly of peaches, and Michael averted his gaze.

His heart was beating fast. He had always been careful to avoid talking about feelings with Trevor, at least when they were sober. He felt like they were dangerously teetering on the point of no return.

Trevor showered in silence. Eventually, Michael realized he should find Trevor a towel and maybe give him some privacy; he went to look for one in the dressing room and when he came back, Trevor turned off the shower. 

“Got you a towel,” Michael said, handing it to Trevor. Trevor grunted and sloppily ran the towel over his hair and face before wrapping it around his waist. 

Michael only realized he had been staring when Trevor sighed. "Fuck you, Mikey. You keep leading me on.”  
"What?” His eyes shot up and he furrowed his brow. “I don't do that."

Trevor stared back at him for a moment before shaking his head. He slouched back to the dressing room, Michael following him. Trevor opened a locker that apparently served as his closet and dug around for a pair of underpants. Michael turned his head when Trevor pulled off the towel. 

“I don’t do that,” Michael repeated after Trevor was close enough to decent again. He threw the towel on the floor and slowly made his way to his office, Michael trailing close to him just in case he needed more help.

“ _Trevor_ ,” Michael pleaded, sounding exasperated when they were back in the office.

Trevor turned to face him. “What? You fucking do. Sometimes I catch you staring and you get this look in your eyes, and I almost fool myself into thinking that _maybe_ …”  
“Oh, you’re the one to talk about _looks_ ,” Michael retorted.

Trevor smiled with no real joy. “I am, Sugartits. Because I’ve never tried to hide how I feel. You’re the one who can’t decide and I’m tired of this fucking game.”

That shut Michael right up — because Trevor was right.

Michael rubbed his face as Trevor threw himself on the sofa. He turned on his side, his eyes closing immediately. 

“Will you be fine if I go?” Michael asked quietly. He needed to think and he couldn’t do that here.  
“Not gonna die in my sleep, Sugartits,” he murmured an answer, then paused for a while before continuing with a deliberately neutral tone of voice. “You know we would be so good together.”

“... We really wouldn’t, T,” Michael sighed after a long pause. “We hate each other most of the time. We're barely even friends.”  
Trevor opened his eyes, even if it unquestionably took some effort. “But that means you’ve thought about it too, right? I haven’t been just imagining it.” 

Michael swallowed nervously. He needed to get out. But he didn’t want to just leave, he needed to make sure Trevor would be fine, needed to make sure that later they could maybe work things out between them. When Trevor wasn’t as high and he wasn’t panicking quite as much.

“Get clean and we’ll talk.” He said, surprising himself with how calm his voice managed to sound. 

Trevor opened and closed his mouth. “How clean?” He asked after a while, eyebrows knitted together.  
" _Completely_ , Trev. Obviously.” Michael frowned. 

Trevor licked his lips. "What if I don't wanna do that?" He mumbled.  
“Why... Why wouldn’t you?” Michael asked incredulously. 

Trevor raised himself up a bit. “Because what the fuck does _we'll talk_ even men? You’re probably just saying that to get me off the drugs. And when I do that, nothing's gonna change anyway and you'll still fucking despise me, and I'm still alone and fucking running after you, and I don't even have the drugs to—”

Michael stepped forward and got on one knee to be on the same level as Trevor. 

“Listen, T,” he said harshly to stop the rambling. “I don’t know what it means either. I'd just like you to live a bit longer, and you _won't_ if you keep going like this. I'm fucking worried about you, okay?"

Trevor stared at Michael for a while longer before nodding and closing his eyes. “ _Fine_. Jesus, you’re dramatic. Now get the fuck out so I can sleep,” he said, no anger in his voice. Sleep took over him almost immediately.

"Fuck, Trev,” Michael breathed out, rubbing his face. “I ain't got a lot either if you go and get yourself killed," he whispered before getting up and backing away.

He looked around for a blanket, but why would there be a blanket in the backroom of a strip club? They needed to get Trevor a real place to stay, assuming he would still want and accept help after sobering up. Michael hoped he did.

Instead of heading out he went inside the club and paid the first employee he saw a thousand bucks to go sit in Trevor's office until he woke up, to make sure Trevor actually didn’t die in his sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, this kinda went nowhere. It was supposed to be just pure smut: you know, my version of the _Trevor takes a bath/shower_ trope which we all love, but the drug aspect took over and I was like "Mikey _wouldn't_." Not in that situation but after Trevor gets himself together... Well. I think Michael needs to feel needed and Trevor needs to feel cared about, it could work...
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this despite the lack of smut!
> 
> Also couldn't resist the clown reference so yeah, the meth really doesn't mix well with weed... :D 
> 
> Big thanks to Edgeanescence and KingCroweOfCamelot for helping with grammar and plot! <3
> 
> Check out [this piece of art](https://nevergonnasimpyoumikey.tumblr.com/post/632792208577282048/in-the-mirror-he-saw-trevor-looking-back-at-him) made by @thenoman-sland on Tumblr! <3


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